Breaking The Code
by TheDailyKnight
Summary: Merthur, AU. Merlin has an agenda. How many euphemisms can he fire at Prince Arthur over lunch without him realising what he is talking about? There is more than one way to polish a sword, after all. I make it 43. Can you spot them all? As usual, copyright belongs to the relevant parties. I am only *ahem* playing with them.


**Breaking The Code**

It was a hot summer's day as Merlin made his way along the corridors carrying his Prince's lunch. He was a little late – what else was new – but Arthur hadn't bellowed yet, so, Merlin thought, he couldn't have been _too_ hungry.

He reached the hall, pushed the door open with his bottom and slid in backwards.

Arthur looked up from the dining table.

"Ah, Merlin, good. Food at last!"

He turned to the court musician and nodded him out. He left looking somewhat forlorn.

"What's the matter with him?" asked Merlin as he placed the tray on the table.

"His lute broke halfway through the tune," replied Arthur, not unsympathetically. "He was determined to carry on. I had to let him. It would have been cruel not to. Still, it's the first time I've ever seen a man playing a one-stringed melody."

"Didn't you want to pull rank on him and ask him to stop then?" asked Merlin with a wicked grin.

"I don't pull rank on anybody if I can avoid it."

Merlin searched Arthur's expression for any hint of disguised humour, some teasing lapse that would make him think that Arthur was being anything but innocent. If it was there, he couldn't find it. Arthur's expression remained one of pure nonchalance.

"What took you so long?" asked Arthur, tucking a clean linen napkin under his chin.

"I was buttering your corn."

"Does that really take forever?"

"It depends on how hot it is outside. Some days it's easier than others. I just couldn't get a firm chunk onto it."

"The butter was sloppy?"

"Very."

"When did you last milk the cow?"

"Yesterday."

"It probably hasn't had time to set properly yet."

"Indeed, Sire," replied Merlin, smiling widely.

Merlin took the lid off the plate and smiled as Arthur gazed at his lunch in delight.

"Merlin! You choked a chicken just for me?"

"Yeah," replied Merlin shuffling his feet. "I finally got over my fear of them. Oh, and I managed to flip your omelette and keep it whole this time too."

"You're getting better at this," said Arthur approvingly. "I wonder what I shall have to ask you to do next to keep you busy?"

"I could try charming the grass snakes," replied Merlin, unable to help himself. Sometimes, Arthur was just so _clueless_.

"Merlin, if you keep up this unusual level of usefulness, you'll be crowning the King next."

Merlin turned away and wandered over to the window to disguise the laughs that he was trying to suppress. Arthur frowned, but got stuck into his meal.

"That would be a very grand honour. But, ask yourself for a moment: Where would you be if you didn't have somebody like me to baste your ham, raise your bread and tenderise your beefsteak?"

"Starving, probably. How is Cook, by the way? Is Gaius' medicine helping her?"

"After she got bitten by Aithusa? She's alright. It was only a small nip. It only cut half her finger. If Aithusa had been seriously out to hurt her, I would be scrubbing Cook's outline off the kitchen wall right now. Hopefully that will be the last time she tries to beat my dragon with her egg whisk. Aithusa was only hungry, after all. And it was just one pie. A very well poked pie, so I hear. She had some left over from the feast, you see, and wanted to use it up. I'm pretty sure that's why Aithusa went for it."

"For that we should all be thankful. She was lucky that she wasn't made to dance in the dragon's fiery breath."

"Yes. I'm the only one who can get away with doing that."

Arthur gave him a puzzled look.

"I put up a shield charm to avoid getting incinerated. Dragon fire is dangerous stuff."

"I suppose it is," mused Arthur, finishing the omelette that Merlin had so skilfully flipped for him earlier. He started on the chicken with gusto. "I always say that you can never have too much pork in your pie," he declared between mouthfuls.

Merlin coughed loudly against the back of his hand.

"Wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh, absolutely, Sire," he replied honestly. "I like to have my pie well porked. Every time."

Again, Arthur's expression failed to waver. His rapt ministrations over the chicken never faltered, not even once. Honestly, thought Merlin, how clueless could his blond be?

"Anyway," said Arthur, starting at last on the well-buttered corn, "I have a strange job for you this afternoon. I need you to help the Knights ride my five-legged pony all the way to Avalon for me."

At this, Merlin's jaw dropped.

"Yes, that was what I thought too," said Arthur with a smile. "I didn't believe it myself until I saw it. The poor creature was hobbling about all over the place when I went to see if the rumours were true. Honestly, the indignity that it was suffering. It was bloated and straining to be set free. I think it wanted to escape its pain, to be honest. I couldn't leave it there, about to be slaughtered by the owner, so I bought it. When I brought it back, the stable hand told me that there's a place near Avalon where some Druid sect might be able to treat it."

"So, what do you expect me to do about it?"

"I need you to escort the Knights to help ease its pain as best you can with your magic and to ward off any superstitious peasants who might mean it harm."

"But the Knights could do that by carrying their swords, couldn't they?"

Arthur sighed and gave Merlin his best 'why are you such an _idiot_?' look.

"Merlin, the more magically-inclined peasants pay more attention to the size of your staff than the sword-shaking talents of my knights. You know that already."

"Oh, fine, I'll go. How long will I be away?"

"About a week, I think."

"And when will I leave?"

"In about half an hour."

"Then I suppose I shall have to make a sacrifice to the God of lonely nights before I go."

"Is that really necessary?"

"It will help to lighten my already considerable burden."

"Does it involve candles and dripping wax?"

"Not... usually," replied Merlin carefully.

"Only the last time you did a ritual like that, George said it took ages to rub the stains off his brass knockers."

"Look, we've talked about this before, ok? I didn't know that he'd left his door knockers under his bed! Arthur, the guy _sleeps_ with them! I was only trying to cure his insomnia. I was trying to be friendly. Anyway, it was that or seek advice from Peregrin the Potty."

"Who?"

"Peregrin the Potty. Oh, he's a healer who lives in the forest near Ealdor."

"What's so bad about him?"

"He worships his weasel."

"I don't think I want to know any more."

"He thinks that passing his weasel over people is a cure for all ills. In reality, all you tend to end up with is fleas. It's a moth-eaten, wheezy old thing. Mind you, it might have been worth a shot. I would have loved to see the look on George's face when I prescribed _that_ as a cure."

"Don't be mean," admonished Arthur. There was no real malice in it though. Indeed, he said it with a grin that declared, "I would love to have been there with you too."

"Anyway, your father is very clear on the matter of magic. I can use it because I saved his neck with it. But if I invited Peregrin the Potty here, there would pretty soon be Royal Decree stating 'No Weasel Worshipping in the Royal Castle, By Order of the King'. Why, if it got out that the King had allowed a fully-blown weasel-worshipper to worship his weasel under his roof, there would be outrage!"

"I guess you're right," said Arthur, finishing his meal. "Anyway, all this chattering is not solving the main issue here."

"Which is?"

"This."

Arthur pushed his chair back and Merlin's jaw dropped to the floor. The front of Arthur's breeches were open and his manhood was bobbing away happily of its own accord. He'd kept it very well hidden under the table throughout lunch. Well enough for Merlin not to have spotted it, which came, to say the least, as a huge surprise to him.

"I suggest that instead of talking, you whip up some instant pudding; make me some frothy soup; give my blind dog a run for its gold; play Backstroke Rummy with a five-knuckle shuffle; null my magical void by abusing my wicked staff; make it snow indoors; scour my tower of power; shake hands with Pendragon Junior; shine my helmet; polish my sword; spank my donkey; smite my pink knight; stroke my satin serpent; tame my shrew; whip my dipper; wrestle my dragon; toss my turkey; thump my pump; show me your secret handshake; punish Percy Pendragon; pimp my pumpkin and fire my longbow! If you don't, I shall make you argue with Henry Longfellow instead."

"Wow! You want me to do all that in half an hour?" asked Merlin with his cheekiest grin. He put a hand on his hip and sighed. "Work, work, work and more work!"

Arthur sauntered casually over to him. He took Merlin by his shoulders and pushed him firmly to his knees. Merlin offered no resistance, but his grin became even more wicked. Arthur pulsed harder at the sight of Merlin's reddened cheeks and his tongue as it licked his lips.

"No, Merlin. Enough talk now. You've hinted strongly enough. I don't want you to do all of that in half an hour. Now I just want you to do this."

He cupped the back of Merlin's head in his hands gently and pushed into Merlin's open and unresisting mouth, relishing the feel of his whipping tongue as he was enveloped by willing warmness. His buttocks quivered as Merlin obeyed.

"You see, Merlin," he said through gritted teeth as Merlin found his sweet spot, "I'm all for musicians playing the one-string lute, but all I have wanted all morning is a talented horn player."

A snorted breath of warm air against his balls as Merlin tried to laugh and suck at the same time made him laugh out loud. It didn't last long. Merlin may have been a talented horn player, but right now he wanted to play the whole orchestra. He gripped Arthur's buttocks firmly and squeezed, listening carefully to the long, drawn out moan of his planned melody's introduction. He would have to ride a five-legged pony to Avalon later, but right now his three-legged stallion would help to ease the load.


End file.
